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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26493517">zalagon se nine(lie)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/ToasTea/pseuds/ToasTea'>ToasTea</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Game of Thrones (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Asha best wingwoman ever confirmed, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Love, Nurse!Dany, i think, love is everywhere</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 11:55:52</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>7,567</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26493517</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/ToasTea/pseuds/ToasTea</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Nine times she had burned him when he got too close. Nine times she must confront what she had wrought.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Jorah Mormont/Daenerys Targaryen</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>49</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>62</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Jorleesi Equinox Exchange -Fall 2020</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. i. ii. iii / don't be afraid</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/squilf/gifts">squilf</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Dearest Squilf,</p><p>I sacrificed a bit of political sense in favor of focusing on their relationship, hopefully it isn't too distracting. I tried to incorporate all four of your prompts to the best of my abilities. I may be (a smidge) biased towards Nurse!Dany so your ideas were fun to work with. I took the liberty of journeying outside my comfort zone to play with a different format. I hope it isn’t too detracting or messy.</p><p>Inspiration and muse funded by Aimer’s “Ninelie.”</p><p>This story took on a life of its own so I had to split it into two chapters. I sincerely apologize for the length and any mistakes that might have slipped by me. 🙏 Hope you enjoy!</p><p>Prompts</p><ol>
<li>I'd really like to see something (probably a fic or fanart) about Dany taking care of Jorah after he's bloodied and weary from battle. He's her knight and he's fought for her and she's recognising her champion. Think: removing his armour, bathing him, tending to his wounds. Jorah feels like he doesn't deserve the attention - he's her servant and happy to serve her - but secretly loves it. If you're writing a fic, this could turn into (probably quite gentle!) lovemaking, but the main thing is the intimacy and the fact that Dany is trying to show him through her actions how much she cares for and values him.</li>
<li> Fanfiction. Dany seduces Jorah. He tries to resist her, thinking he shouldn't have this, but she's very persuasive. Could be canon or AU, I just really want to see it!<br/>
</li>
<li>Anything that focuses on the intimacy and trust between these two. I love how well they KNOW each other and can talk without talking... They understand each other with a single glance.
</li>
<li> Fanfiction. Anything focusing on their age difference.</li>
</ol>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h3>I. II. III.</h3><p>Word traveled quickly.</p><p>They called it ‘The Long Night.’ A winter that should’ve consumed the world. A winter purged by the flames of the dragon queen herself. A futile battle won and a northern country brought to salvation by a foreign conqueror.</p><p>While it grieved her to lie in wait on the islands as her brother and ally faced the dead, Ironborn are strongest by the waters. They would be as useful as beached whales so far from the sea. Beyond that, she had a separate role to fulfill; to deprive her uncle of his place on the salt throne when he is occupied with Cersei and provide Queen Daenerys an additional safe haven should the dead overrun Winterfell.</p><p>The stories of their victory are all she could rely on. She believes in a person’s strength when she sees them breathe the same air as her and the courage her brother demonstrated when she received Theon’s ashes. But doubt recedes from Asha when the queen is brought to the forefront of her thoughts. Not even the most absurd exaggerations could deter her. </p><p>The truth is laid simply in her two remaining dragons and the life that still beats in what remains of her army.</p><p>Her time lying in wait on Pyke was not wasted. She’d reforged her beloved Black Wind and built as many boats as time could afford before rendezvousing with the others at Dragonstone. Asha doesn’t fear losing her claim to the Iron Islands. </p><p>Euron will die before he can come for it a second time..</p><p>“You still like ships, don’t you?” asks Daario.</p><p>The others around the war table eye him curiously, even the Prince of Dorne is inquisitive of his lax tone on such a risky execution.</p><p>But the majority of their interest lied in Queen Daenerys’ response, which lacked the same childish amusement. “I didn’t ask you to risk your life and this war over a few ships.” </p><p>“No, but you didn’t say I couldn’t. They came with elephants this time too.”</p><p>Ah, yes. Daario Naaharis. </p><p>She’d met him and The Second Sons on the way to Dragonstone. A roguish warrior with a silver tongue. Better than average charm. She could see why the queen brought him to bed, however long that lasted.</p><p>The spider had sent word of a few ships transporting the Golden Company’s war elephants under a merchant’s flag. They’d apparently struggled to arrange transportation for such large animals and thought it best to resolve the issue separately while Euron ferried the rest of the sellswords to King’s Landing.</p><p>Frankly, it was a bold and stupid plan, and she went against it initially. Queen Daenerys didn’t impose such a risky task on either of them, but the tyroshi was more convincing and ambitious than most men. </p><p>Her fleet was situated far enough to remain unidentifiable and escape should the boy fail but close enough to provide aid should he succeed.</p><p>He had talent, she’ll give him that much. If only he was as quiet as his infiltrating skills implied. Cunning as well.</p><p>The entire thing was bold and reckless, but it’d worked. He was even smart enough to make sure they weren’t being followed. </p><p>An impulsive boy, but she couldn't deny his character was an echo of someone she knew before.</p><p>Daario Naharis’ arrogant and reckless behavior were ghostly reminders of her first encounter with Theon, but with a degree of grace and skill. </p><p>She would never risk her men over such a fruitless plan. But perhaps it was her brother she believed in and not Daario. Theon still lingers in her thoughts, and perhaps she will never find peace until she spreads his ashes across Pyke's waters.</p><p>There would be time to properly grieve Theon later, but not now. She must win this war for him, for their father and the men who were loyal to her ‘till their last breaths.</p><p>Now, they must plan. And while Daario’s decision to steal Cersei’s elephants were risky and foolish, they’d successfully deprived Cersei of a crucial resource.</p><p>“Your Grace.”</p><p>Daenerys opens her mouth to speak, but it’s Ser Jorah’s voice across the table that extinguishes any retaliation she might have had. </p><p>“Cersei’s numbers are far greater than ours. She is aware of how much the dead have taken from us. Frustrating as it is, risks are all we can afford at this point and we must seize advantages wherever we can.”</p><p>According to Varys, Cersei has scorpions strewn across King’s Landings walls. If anything, the elephants will serve to disrupt a few so that her dragons will be given more leeway in the skies. </p><p>Asha understands her frustrations well. It was an impulsive risk that could’ve halved their numbers with one false step. Perhaps long ago, she would have been impressed, even charmed. But despite their separation, Asha senses something has changed within the queen. Like a dragon who’s reached maturity and risen from the ashes of her former hyde. </p><p>Queen Daenerys is wiser, stronger, steeled by literal death and loss. Someone who is no longer swayed by boyish charm and recklessness. But she understands the weight this final siege holds and accepts this upper hand over the risks after some rumination.</p><p>Their discussion continues with each member contributing their piece. But as the conversation deepens, her eyes latch onto something peculiar.</p><p>She’s heard of Ser Jorah’s bravery on the field, how he defended his queen with unparalleled strength, how he stood despite the onslaught of steel penetrating his armor. There is history between their houses, but she isn’t petty enough to deflect his admirable feats and qualities over spilled milk.</p><p>He wasn't much of a talker unsurprisingly, but his silence is all she needs to solidify the peace between them. Perhaps not as Mormont and Ironborn and the politics in-between, but as warriors pledged the same queen.</p><p>Strong. Brave. Mature. Steadfast. Loyal. Admirable. <i>Attractive</i> even. Older, but a better figure than men half his age. </p><p>Much softer qualities than most men. A bit too soft for her liking though. For others? </p><p>No. For Daenerys however, there’s apparently much to admire. </p><p>Asha smirks. </p><p>The queen is distracted. </p><p>She’s paying attention, but not entirely, and now Asha is equally guilty.</p><p>The pull of this charged mating ritual between the dragon and the bear is too amusing to let go. The way her eyes glaze over his form like a predator examining its prey. The bemused crinkle in his whenever he meets that subtle gaze, trying to decipher what he sees. </p><p>Asha doesn’t understand their relationship as well as the others, but even she isn’t blind to what festers between them. An illiterate could read the story between their charged looks. </p><p>“That’s enough,” says Daenerys. “We will go over everything one last time tomorrow morning before we strike.”</p><p>Everyone is dismissed. “Not you, Ser Jorah," she commands.</p><p>Everyone except <i>him.</i> He remains unsurprised. A well-read man it looks like, reading between the lines of their shared glances.</p><p>Daario notices as well, but the boy doesn’t dare address it in. At least, not yet.</p><p>But in that moment, an opportunity presents itself. </p><p>She’s feeling cheeky suddenly, sparked by a dangerous combination of thrill and curiosity.</p><p>Asha moves to follow behind the others but stops directly in front of Ser Jorah after purposefully brushing past his arm. “I’ve heard tales of your display at Winterfell, Jorah.”</p><p>He eyes her, bemused. The queen as well. She can practically feel those purple hues scaling her back. </p><p>“Exaggerated tales,” he says, simply.</p><p>“You did what many soldiers couldn’t.”</p><p>“I did what any soldier would do to protect his queen.”</p><p>
  <i>Humble. Not bad.</i>
</p><p>“No ordinary soldier stands and fights with strength like that after taking a thousand blades,” her eyes wander over his form to accentuate her dipping tone. “You fancy a spar with my men? Reckon you could show them a thing or two.”</p><p>She fans the flames even further. She slides her hand up his forearm, her actions deliberate and very much aware of the other presence in the room.</p><p>“Or if you’d prefer a one-on-one session, I won’t oppose.”</p><p>He gently stops her before she can venture further with his hand, his blue eyes reflecting that Mormont stoicism and loyalty.</p><p>“Perhaps another day, Lady Greyjoy,” Jorah answers matter-of-factly. She crosses the line and omits formalities, but he does not follow.</p><p>Daenerys clears her throat, a veiled growl that goes unmissed. “I wish to speak to Ser Jorah privately. If you’d be so kind, Lady Greyjoy...”</p><p>Her tone is a reflection of the calm before the storm. There’s no need to look in order to know what happens when someone toys with the dragon’s meal. Someone brittle would be sent skittering to their chambers, but Asha is far from that person. </p><p>No, Asha doesn’t fear this territorial behavior. In fact, she respects it, admires it. Even embraces that arousing thrill pooling in her belly as she thrives under the scrutiny of those piercing eyes and bared fangs. The dragon isn’t the only creature that strokes her adventurous womanhood, but as comely both may be, a satisfying victory comes in a different form within this small game.</p><p>“Of course,” says Asha, leveling her gaze with the knight, “the night is still young after all, Your Grace”</p><p>She gives his chin a playful little flick, offers the queen a sultry wink, and departs, “Take your time.” </p><p>The doors creak shut behind her. Whatever transpires behind them, she will gladly take credit for in the morning.</p><p><i>If I had my way, I’d get on with it and have both of those fools on that table,</i> she muses.</p>
<hr/><p>Daenerys finds herself growing weary of this game of thrones.</p><p>She’d exerted and lost so much at Winterfell that this final battle feels more like a nuisance than anything. The Iron Throne is in sight, but even its grandeur has come and gone like the winter that came.</p><p>To further intensify this raging storm within her, Asha Greyjoy’s little display forces her to confront what’s been relentlessly aggravating her heart since the long night. Even when the Ironborn woman finally leaves, there’s little relief to be found. </p><p>Daenerys wants to blame it on her spiking hormones, the climate even, but she knows it’s more than either.</p><p>She sighs heavily and doesn’t look at him when she leaves her seat, moving to stand near the open walls that overlook the grass field. His footsteps follow but stop shortly behind her. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t need to and instead, allows her to bask in the evening breeze and the crashing waves against the rocks.</p><p>He's always been able to read her moods better than any, always letting her lead while most others would try to direct. His patience remains unrivaled and his steadfast presence was always the sun that filtered through whatever would cloud her heart and mind.</p><p>Daenerys only wishes she’d noticed sooner. A regret that placed itself at the forefront of her thoughts when she’d nearly lost him, one that still plagues her even as he stands here, strong and alive. </p><p>But on this particular night where the moon is hidden among the clouds, Asha's words weigh heavily on her, more than she would like, spurring a dormant desire lying within her.</p><p>She's always welcomed his gentle presence, but that alone will not be enough tonight, not when she's craving for more. </p><p>“You’ve quite the admirers,” she says, filling the silence. </p><p>This is nothing new. Daenerys is no fool. He’s older but more handsome than men half his age. It doesn’t go unnoticed by the women in her khalasar, the Dornish handmaidens, in Qarth, in cities she’s conquered, in Winterfell even. To them, his battle against the dead only heightened his comeliness.</p><p>It shouldn’t bother her but it does. The piece that preserved her duty and denied his place in her heart died that night on the battlefield. </p><p>His loyalty is unquestionable, and they both know she's always had his heart. But there is a need for this conversation if only to pacify her own selfishness. </p><p>“They admire what they hear, not what they see," he says.</p><p>“I’ve seen enough to know there is truth in what they hear.”</p><p>“Partially, perhaps.”</p><p>She turns around at that and takes a step forward, watching the soft shadows from the torches dance across his face, and tells him sternly. “I would not be standing here if their stories were false.”</p><p>Exaggeration has no place within House Mormont. Lyanna Mormont, the little she-bear, slew a giant thrice her size and Jorah Mormont survived against a horde of blades that would have killed any normal man. If he was pitted against the gods themselves, she would believe in his victory without a shred of doubt.</p><p>“They forget about the queen that fought alongside him,” he replies gently, contrasting her strict tone. </p><p>That doesn’t bother her, not at the moment at least. Something else does and his humble words will distract her no more. </p><p>“No, they remember,” she affirms, taking another step. “But some women are more inclined to remember you for other reasons, not just your skill.”</p><p>“I sold slaves as well, Your Grace.”</p><p>Daenerys sighs. “Not that...and you have long been forgiven.” She chances another step forward before he can broach the subject, just enough so that she could grab the hand resting on his sword and watches his features soften under her touch. “And have you forgotten already?”</p><p>His brows furrow in confusion for a beat until he recognizes her implication. </p><p>“Of course not...” he trails, his thumb brushing against her knuckles, contemplating even though the answer is right in front of him. </p><p>
  <i>Don’t ever presume to touch me or speak my name.</i>
</p><p>“...Daenerys.” </p><p>It’s difficult for him still, and he’s prone to forget the trust she’s given him as it can sometimes become lost among his own demons. </p><p><i>’It’s just us. Daenerys is fine,’</i> she’d said on a walk they’d taken one evening when the rest of Winterfell was tucked away. The queen may have her during the day but at night, when duty takes rest, she is simply Daenerys. </p><p>She likes the sound of her name from his lips. His hoarse timbre adds a level of intimacy that teases the manifesting heat beneath her belly and makes it sound special. </p><p>Satisfied, her eyes follow her fingers as they trace the veins on his weathered hands. “Eyes bluer than the heavens themselves,” she says, her tone monotonously imitating the many whispers she’s heard. “Dirty blonde hair, the same hair that peppers his strong jaw. Tall, broad shoulders that perfectly frame how handsome he is.”</p><p>She peaks from under her lashes, watches how his eyes flicker to their hands, a bashful little smile turning his lips, a soft chuckle escaping underneath. The contrast against his knightly demeanor lifts her heart and enhances the possessiveness lingering inside her, so much different compared to the way he stood against Asha Greyjoy’s advances. Where regular men would polish their ego with such words, he remains endearingly humble.</p><p>Still…</p><p>There’s a much darker and longing part of her that wishes to see that same strength for other reasons.</p><p>“I pale in the face of true beauty," he humbles. She blushes. Many men have told her the same, but it's only he who she believes.</p><p>This flirty layer they’ve taken on in their private conversations is common now. Patience and revelations from broken hearts rebuilt this bridge between them.</p><p>"You are a handsome man, Jorah" she continues, refusing to be deterred by his compliment. She frees one of her hands so that she could take hold of his chin, and lift his face so that their eyes could meet. “I must agree with them.”</p><p>“You jest, Khaleesi.”</p><p>“I am not.” Daenerys took one final step, crossing the invisible line between them, breaking the former levity, and coiling the space with palpable tension. He is close enough where she can smell his woodsy scent and she knows without a doubt that this new yet familiar intimacy affects him as well. She is close enough where he reflexively takes a step back.</p><p>“There is better,” he says, hoarsely.</p><p>“I don’t care for <i>better</i>,” she says, accentuating ‘better’ to make her point clear.</p><p>She releases his chin, allowing the back of her fingers to trace his jaw, down his neck where the lump jostles as he swallows, his skin warm, stubble pleasantly sharp and prickly.</p><p>Gods, she has not touched him like this since Qarth, and the starvation she'd pushed away has returned with a mighty vengeance. Its heat forms between her legs and conducts her every move.</p><p>“Daenerys,” he whispers, grimly, like a feeble warning.</p><p>Her hand doesn’t heed. She frees the other from his grasp. His hands twitch in her direction, a move that is fueled by his desire but halted by their history. He remains stubborn even when she has already crossed the line.</p><p>She shouldn’t be surprised. This is a man who stood in the face of death and won.</p><p>He steps back.</p><p>One step forward. </p><p>One step back. </p><p>Normally attentive to his surroundings as her knight, but ungainly as a man under her spell when he almost bumps into the chair behind him.</p><p>Another step forward.</p><p>Another step back.</p><p>A rhythm she’s ensnared him in until his back hits the painted table, a soft grunt passing under his breath as his hands clutch the edges. </p><p>“You resist,” she says, her eyes scanning his face for an answer, falling to his lips now and then, before asking. “Why?”</p><p>“We can’t. We shouldn’t.”</p><p>"I did not ask that."</p><p>"The others will hear."</p><p>"Their opinions about what I do behind closed doors means little to me."</p><p>"Khaleesi, we-"</p><p>Daenerys shushes him, places a hand on his, her soft touch contrasting the white-knuckled grip on the stone. She leans forward, sliding her other hand down his chest and around his waist so that they’re pressed against each other. Too many clothes for her liking, yet it fails to hide his strong figure and his firm desire against her stomach. </p><p>The lust coursing through her body has been set ablaze. Never has the unburnt wished to be burned so greatly. </p><p>“No 'we.' Do not speak for me, <i>Ser</i>,” she commands. “I know what I want.”</p><p><i>I should’ve known sooner,</i> she berates.</p><p>Her fingers begin working at his hands, gently urging them from their firm hold on the table. She presses her lips against the little patch of skin left bare on his chest. He shivers under her touch and she can sense his Mormont stubbornness beginning to crack as his breathing grows deeper, heavier. This tension weighing down on them only augments her courage. </p><p>“Do you not desire me, Jorah?” she breathes against his warm skin.</p><p>She knows the answer. Jorah’s loyalty is not only scribed on his blade but his heart as well. </p><p>But she would hear it from him nevertheless. She <i>wants</i> him to say it.</p><p>“Daenerys,” His grip on the table is weakening. </p><p>“Is it Lady Greyjoy?”</p><p>“No,” he growls without skipping a beat. His hand finally frees itself from the table and resigns to her touch. </p><p>
  <i>Do not presume to touch me…</i>
</p><p>She guides his hand to her waist where it belongs, his fingers strong but gentle. Her head lifts from his chest to meet his eyes, and what she sees pulses an arousing thrill through her body. His eyes are hooded with mutual lust, one that has been left to starve for far too long, forced to a predatorial state. She feels smaller having to look up at him despite her caging him against the table.</p><p>And yet, he stands, welcoming her touch but unyielding. Where most men would give in, Jorah Mormont would not. Even now, he's mindful of her duty.</p><p>This part of him frustrated her to no end, but she would have all of him and would not change it for anything.</p><p>The dragon will toy with her food for as long as she must. If anything, this prolonged ritual will enhance the <i>taste,</i> surely.</p><p>“Then what stops you?”</p><p>He doesn’t answer, yet she can hear the words running through his mind under the warm breath that cascades against her cheeks and the tongue that darts from his lips as they part. His nostrils flared, jaw tense.</p><p>She will rip the answer from him if she must.</p><p>“Very well,” she sighs, moving to pull away. “But I won't go unfulfilled tonight. If you won't have me, then I suppose I must settle with Daario-”</p><p>He is towering at his full height suddenly, having pushed off the table. His movement causes her to take a step back, a gasp escaping her lips from the sudden force, her ankles bumping into the chair behind them. </p><p>She occupies the same seat as she did during their meeting, but for much different reasons.</p><p>That name provokes what's been sleeping within him, and Daenerys cannot help but grin at his aggravated display, her womanhood pulsing from the power he exerts when he grips the arms of the chair, essentially caging her in. </p><p>She’s accustomed to power and an aptitude for commanding the room, but no other man could snatch that power from her so skillfully, so <i>erotically</i> like Jorah Mormont. A man so readily restrained is more thrilling to uncover.</p><p><i>More.</i> She wants to see <i>more.</i> What else is her bear capable of?</p><p>“Not Daario,” he says through clenched teeth. He doesn’t reflect the same amusement, which urges her even further. </p><p>Even when he towers over her, he’s still too far.</p><p>She playfully loops her fingers around the strings of his black tunic. “Then who?” she teases, a deadly blend of mirth and lust dancing in her eyes as she tugs him closer so that he may feel her breath. </p><p>“Who?” she whispers again, her lips brushing past his, scraping against his stubble. Her legs open wider at their own volition, the wetness under her dress begging for an end to this game. Her free hand snakes around his neck, ring finger toying with his earlobe. </p><p>The intoxication is too much. Jorah finally succumbs to her invitation, resigns to her lips, and kneels before the woman he worships-</p><p>“Your Grace?”</p><p>A knock startles both of them, shatters their world like brittle dragon glass, and sends Jorah scrambling to his feet.</p><p>Daenerys clears her throat. “Yes?” she replies, harsher than necessary.</p><p>“The bath is ready for you, Your Grace.”</p><p>It’s Missandei. She cannot fault her gentle friend, but she curses the gods under her breath for such a timely intervention. </p><p>“I’ll be there shortly.”</p><p>They both wait for the footsteps to fade away before they both stand and organize themselves. </p><p>“Daenerys,” he begins, worry lacing his tone, a strong shift from the man he presented just moments before. “I-”</p><p>She pushes a finger to his lips before he can say more. Daenerys knows exactly what he’s going to say, and she’ll have none of it.</p><p>No more regrets. </p><p>“No,” she says, gently but firmly. Her eyes never leave his, even as his blue hues flicker between hers searching for some form of rejection. </p><p>No, she will do no such thing to him ever again. </p><p>Daenerys sighs, more from frustration as she moves to cup his cheek, her thumb tracing the bone underneath. “When this is all over, we will talk more. I promise, my bear.”</p><p>She imparts those words with the same strength he has shown her through their time spent together, leaving no room for doubt. Though someone like him will always be plagued by doubts, she will be here to slay them all, as many times necessary. Just as he has always done for her.</p><p>Jorah says no more and simply nods. His features are still submerged in trepidation for a future he doesn't dare hope for, but he chooses to reserve the remainder of his strength. He leans into her touch instead, his large hand covering her smaller one.</p><p>After organizing themselves properly, they part ways for the night, but not before she notices a minor gaffe. “Jorah,” she calls out.</p><p>He turns on his heel, lifting his brow. </p><p>Her lips twist into an innocent smile, gesturing to the loose strings on his tunic. The little ‘sorry’ muttered under his breath draws a soft giggle from her chest as he moves to fix it. </p><p>“Goodnight, Jorah.”</p><p>“Aye, Goodnight, Daenerys.”</p><p>Daenerys takes no one to bed that night after her bath. Instead, she remains alone, falling into a peaceful slumber only after fulfilling herself with images and sensations of taking Jorah Mormont on that table.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. iv. v. vi. & vii. viii. ix. / daybreak has come</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h3>iv. v</h3><p>A long and hard-fought battle comes to a close when the bells finally toll.</p><p>The city surrenders. </p><p>Cersei Lannister is dead and King’s Landing has been delivered from the usurper. </p><p>The remaining Lannister soldiers were given the freedom of choice; to continue fighting under Daenerys Targaryen or walk away. There was no wrong choice. The Breaker of Chains takes no prisoners.</p><p>Naturally, most had chosen the latter.</p><p>This victory, like all wars, is bittersweet. The blood of soldiers who had no choice but to fight rests on their blades. Common folk alike scrambled to find lost loved ones, others fleeing, and those who were able lent themselves to the wounded.</p><p>But the sweetness of it is all the more potent than other battles he’s participated in.</p><p>The war is over, and above all, the hardships Daenerys had faced has finally bared fruit. Her journey is complete. She has ended a corrupt dynasty and will usher in the new world she wishes to create. The pride surging across his heart is unrivaled when his eyes rest on the Targaryen banner strewn across the top of the Red Keep. </p><p>He himself, however, has one final duty to fulfill, and he must not keep his queen waiting. </p><p>
  <i>When I take the seven kingdoms, I need you by my side.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>When this is all over, we will talk more. I promise, my bear.</i>
</p><p>Fatigue begins to settle in his bones, his marred armor growing heavier with each step across the combat-ridden rubble. The winds brought in from the sea feel harsh against the wounds strewn across his body, still fresh from battle. But he has suffered worse, <i>much</i> worse than death even.</p><p>No blade, Valyrian forged or not, could inflict what that night had wrought. He will never forget the image of her grief-stricken face, the feeling of her warm tears upon his cold skin, and the utter uselessness from his inability to comfort her before he nearly departed this world. </p><p>But the thought of her nevertheless urges him forward. That night will haunt him for the rest of his days, but he will leech its strength to fight against its malicious pull and reunite with his silver queen. </p><p>He will never abandon her.</p><p>Rhaegal soars above him in the direction of the Great Hall, his silhouette casting a mighty shadow over the ruined buildings. Jorah knows their language just well as their mother, their pitch indicates no harm has come to her, and the knowledge relieves him as he presses forward.</p><p>He knows he is almost there when he hears a familiar voice from around the corner. </p><p>“Where’s Jorah?” she asks, but he’s not sure who is with her at the moment.</p><p>Daenerys does not bother to diminish the concern in her tone, and a part of him cannot help but feel  elated knowing he has a place in her thoughts. </p><p>Her words, as simple as they are however, draw him back to a less than pleasant memory.</p><p>
  <i>Jorah approaches her tent, bloodied and bruised alongside greyworm, but alive. Their victory twists his lips into a wide smile, his breaths coming in heavy pants as he delivers the news.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>“Where’s Daario?”</i>
</p><p>Jorah finds himself leaning against the wall, wary from battle and his injuries, perhaps more so from reminiscing the way his heart fell hearing that boy’s name on her lips. </p><p>But the doubts are brief and pass as quickly as they had appeared. </p><p>It is <i>his</i> name she calls for. It is <i>he</i> who she frets over even when she has more important things to concern herself with. </p><p>If there is anything the long night had taught him, it is to never cause her grief ever again. </p><p>Mustering up the remainder of his strength with her in his thoughts and heart, he pushes off the wall and emerges from the alley. </p><p>There, by the stairs leading up to the Great Hall, she stands. The sun is setting in the east and casts a beautiful red and orange glow across the city, but he sees none of it. Just her.</p><p>The soft rays cast upon her silver hair create an aura around her like a crown so befitting of her strength and gentle heart, the glow of her pale face tinged with ash, the beautiful purple eyes that meet him as soon as he reveals himself, reflecting something he thought could only be true in his dreams. </p><p>Aye, in this moment, he forgets his injuries, his exhaustion, the battle, the iron throne that is no more than a pile of melted steel, the dragons dancing above them. Even Daario, who respectfully steps back into the shadows cast by her children, is an afterthought. </p><p>The anxiety unlaces itself from her gaze and fills it with life and mirth he has not seen since their days feasting in Vaes Dothrak. </p><p>He wants to be upset, to urge her to be more wary of showing such feelings for someone so low-born in public. But her smile is a precious gem in itself, as precious as the dragon eggs given to her, and he has no energy or will left to fight. Even if it is only from the high of a fresh victory, even if there is still much left to resolve, there is nothing left to chain him from accepting this interlude with the woman he loves.</p><p>The new world she wishes to usher in must begin somewhere, and she has given him the privilege of witnessing-no…<i>being</i> its beginning. </p><p>Daenerys rushes down the stairs, faster than he could climb. He curses his older body and the injuries that slow him down. </p><p>Jorah is smothered within mere moments, the force from her embrace jostles his cuts and bruises, eliciting a wince, and sends him stumbling onto his buttocks. His hand presses into the ground to leverage both of them as the other steadies her. He cares little for this humiliating display. The pain is meager compared to the bliss of having her in his arms. </p><p>His nostrils are immediately filled with her ashy and floral scent, her arms around his neck, face pressing against his bearded cheek. It is futile to resist at this point, too overwhelmed with love he has held for her since the day he met her. His fingers cannot help themselves, cradling the back of her head while the other pulls her tight to his form, his face finding home within the softness of her hair. </p><p>When she pulls back, Jorah is nearly taken aback by what he sees. The mirth lifting her cheeks and filling her eyes, twisting her lips into a soft smile. The hand that gently slides up his neck and stays at his cheek, mindful of his cuts. The way her eyes flicker across his face, looking at him as though she couldn’t believe he was…</p><p>It is all directed at him, and a part of him has to constantly remind himself that he is neither Daario Naharis or Jon Snow. </p><p>A particular demon emerges from the depths of his mind suddenly, whispers to him, warns him not to think it. <i>Do not fall for it again. Do not believe it. Do not hope for it.</i></p><p>
  <i>Love…? Love? How can you say that to me!</i>
</p><p>But it is quickly smothered when she presses her lips against his, drawing a sharp breath from him. Gentle but firm, soft but passionate. She kisses him as though they have no time left in the world, and he is all but willing to surrender to her. </p><p>The fingers carding through his hair sends pleasant tingles down his body, her lips softer than what his dreams entailed. Just the <i>feel</i> of her small body crushing against his urges his hand down her back and around her slim waist. </p><p>She is sweeter than the ripest of peaches and most potent honey with just a touch of smokiness from dragonriding. She is <i>everything</i>, more than dreams and reality itself, more than what he deserves. </p><p>In this moment, even if it were to disappear like the sun receding below the horizon, he allows himself to believe, to remember what happiness and home felt like.</p>
<h3>vi. vii. viii</h3><p>The only thing that rivals Jorah Mormont’s Bear Island strength is his own stubbornness. </p><p>She insisted he rest while the she and the others tend to the lingering remnants of battle, but he’d unsurprisingly refused. He is a man of the people and was never the type to sit still despite the protests of his battered body. Their time at Winterfell is a testament to that. </p><p>Still, she can’t fault him for remaining mindful of their duty, regardless of how their victory has reshaped it. He must tend to the people and she the same, but the kiss they shared is a constant on her mind throughout the day. </p><p>Daenerys misses his presence. They share stolen glances when they pass on the streets and in the halls when they can. It’s not enough, but she remains patient nevertheless, just as he’d been with her.</p><p>By the time they complete their tasks, the sun has already dipped below the horizon and stars have begun dotting the clear skies. King’s Landing falls from bustling streets to hushed whispers and modest fires. </p><p>Where many would find rest, Daenerys finds herself occupying the private quarters she’d set aside for her Lord Commander. She’d already rekindled the fire and organized his few belongings into a chest at the foot of the bed. She will make sure he gets the rest and care he needs. </p><p>Daenerys tests the temperature by cascading her hand across the water. It’d only just dwindled to a calm simmer from its initial boil. </p><p>Just as she pulls her hand from the tub, the wooden doors groan open. Jorah is barely a step in before his eyes latch onto the presentation before him. The bemused crinkle at the edge of his eyes and the little furrow in his brows are treasures to her, lifting her heart and ticking a corner of her lips into a crooked smile.</p><p>“Good evening, Ser,” she greets playfully, leaning against the tub. </p><p>“Khaleesi,” he nods, still confused, conflicted with the implicit meaning behind the arrangements. </p><p>He says no more than that. Their kiss, what happened at Dragonstone, the promise made under that cloudy night, weigh on the words that wish to leave his tongue. </p><p>She can feel his eyes on her, can hear his mind scrambling for alternatives and silly reasons to leave as she pushes off of the wooden material, moving to close the door, locking it. </p><p>They are alone now. No more disturbances. No more waiting. </p><p>“Come,” she says simply, taking his hand, guiding him to the edge of the bathtub. </p><p>“You shouldn’t...” he says hoarsely, tone diminished by exhaustion, by the touch of her fingers as it finds the buckles of his armor. </p><p>His words trail and she doesn’t respond, not right away at least. They’ve done enough talking throughout the time they’ve spent together. In common tongue, in dothraki, but never in the language they both knew, hiding it like a secret beneath the seams of their soft touches and silences. Too afraid, too risky, too many mistakes.</p><p>When she finishes removing the last pieces, she looks up at him, meets his eyes, cups his cheek and tempers his simmering doubts with a delicate kiss. It’s gentler, a much softer intimacy in lieu of their preceding passion. </p><p>Jorah doesn’t protest but she can practically hear his apprehension lingering in the silence between them. It’s all the more apparent as his breath hitches, a brusque ‘no’ leaving his lips, hands snatching her wrists and halting her movements when she tries to reach for the ties at his shirt.</p><p>Initially, she was afraid she might have agitated his injuries. But when she tries to meet his gaze again, he looks away, down at his feet, throat bobbing as he swallows thickly. Still, he says nothing, does nothing to push her away.</p><p>It’s enough for her to see, to hear, to know he’s trapped between the undying love he has for her and the doubts blistering his heart, enticing him back to his duty to her as her servant.</p><p>
  <i>He’s older.</i>
</p><p>He may be, but more impressive than men half his age.</p><p>
  <i>She deserves better, younger.</i>
</p><p>‘Better’ and ‘younger’ isn’t what she desires.</p><p>
  <i>He is ugly, marred with scars.</i>
</p><p>He’s strong, handsome and the scars only serve to enhance him, story and experience behind all of them, proof that there is no folly in the love he has for her.</p><p>Gently, she pries herself from his grasp. </p><p>Jorah doesn’t fight it, letting her guide him through unknown territory. Daenerys loosens the ties on his tunic, each piece revealing more patches of skin. Gingerly, she slips her hands beneath the cotton, pushes it off his shoulders and lets it fall to the stone floor. </p><p>It’s her breath that’s taken away this time.</p><p>He’s just like she’d imagined in her fantasy the night before the battle, but better. <i>Much</i> better. </p><p>Broad shoulders, strong core and arms, the golden furs peppering his chest. He’s unlike past men she’d been with in the most perfect way. Where others shape themselves purposefully from routine, Jorah is lean, his muscles naturally sculpted from combat and labor. </p><p>He’s beautiful, ever more so with the bruises across his torso and cuts lining his arms. Though it makes her heart both soar and ache to see him like this still, knowing they’re proof that he’d fought for her, knowing they exist <i>because</i> of her. Her eyes linger on the raised bumps where his Greyscale once was, tears threatening to emerge with the painful memory that came with it.</p><p>
  <i>”I’m sorry...I’m so sorry.”</i>
</p><p>
  <i>”Don’t be.”</i>
</p><p><i>Let me. I must be,</i> she says to herself. </p><p>He still doesn’t look at her. </p><p>It’s alright, as long as he can feel what Daenerys feels for him when she gently places her hand on his chest, just above the old wound from Winterfell, and kisses the patch of skin housing his Greyscale scars just underneath his collarbone. She feels him shiver under her touch as her affections dwell on his body. </p><p>Her softly fingers follow the ridges of his muscles and scars, mindful of his present injuries, up his chest and neck until it falls under his chin, lifting it. </p><p>In that moment, he’s forced to meet her eyes again. In that moment, she makes sure he sees the love she has for him is as true as the birth of her dragons, her lips offering him a small smile.</p><p>It seems to work, if only a little. She catches the upward tick of his lips, though he remains bashful under her scrutiny. When she moves to remove his breeches, he’s even more apprehensive but allows her nevertheless. She teases him with a smirk and gazes at him coyly from under her lashes after admiring what he’d been hiding.</p><p>A deep breath, near groan, slips past his lips when Jorah submerges his body under the waters, the heat immediately seeping into his skin and relieving his battered body. He winces slightly from the sting of his wounds, but he’s otherwise unbothered as they’re all superficial.</p><p>Satisfied, Daenerys grabs the sponge from the stool, seats herself behind him, and begins her methodical ministrations, starting with his arms.</p><p>“Daenerys,” he turns, his nose brushing against her cheek, “you don’t have to.”</p><p>“I want to,” she shushes, pressing a kiss just underneath his earlobe, a pleasant hum escaping his body. “And besides, I haven’t heard you complain once.”</p><p>“You are a queen. You are not meant to serve but to be served.”</p><p>His breathing his heavy and rhythmic against her, falling under the cadence of her hands. He voices his doubts, but they hold no power over the spell she’s cast.</p><p>“We are more than knight and queen behind these doors. Let me serve you, my bear,” she whispers, sliding the sponge across his neck, down his chest, ridding him of grime and dirt. </p><p>He parts his lips to say more, but Daenerys presses another lingering kiss to his lips, sliding against his beard. Her hands dip lower, down to his stomach underneath the water after taking pleasure in hearing the breath catches in his throat under her touch. </p><p>Her free hand follows the trail left behind by droplets of water, crossing his strong shoulder, down his collar bones, rounding his neck, brushing the little curls at the nape, massaging the scalp underneath his soft golden curls. The desire pooling within her urges her other hand to dip below his waist, but she decides against it. Not right now. Not when he’s hurt. Not when she’s more to show him. </p><p>And so she continues this pattern on his body, caressing him, soothing him, kissing him, <i>loving him.</i> Ridding the last remnants of the walls he’s built around him, cleansing him of the burns she’d wrought across his heart and mind. </p><p>The sponge is abandoned soon enough with her hands taking its role, its coarse material left drifting across the tub. She adorns him with more kisses, on his lips, on his wet shoulders, his neck, his cheekbones, above his brows. His eyes close under her attentive care and love and he has all but resigned her, even finding courage to lift his hand above the waters and tentatively extend an unspoken offer.</p><p>Naturally, she accepts, letting her dress pool at her feet, and joins him. </p><p>She watches how his lips part in wonder, eyes flickering across her bare body in admiration, affection pouring from his features. She feels her skin flushing, not just from the heated water lapping against her waist but from his adoring gaze as well. </p><p>How one man could hold so much love is a miracle in itself. To the world, she may be the miracle they needed, but Jorah Mormont will always be hers.</p><p>The water isn’t hot enough for her liking when she lowers her body, but it’s a small thing compared to the man before her. She kneels before him so that his legs frame her small form and leans against his chest, careful not to jostle his wounds any further. Her hand surfaces to find his cheek while he steadies her at the waist and small of her back with his strong hands.</p><p>When the rest of the world sleeps, another awakens under the protection if these walls. His familiar scent overwhelms her, his strength against her slim frame sends pleasurable tingles across his body, the feel of his prickly beard beneath her fingers, and the love strewn across his handsome face gives her the final push over the edge. </p><p>
  <i>Tyrion Lannister was right. I love you.</i>
</p><p>She falls and basks in the warmth that floods the divide between them. </p><p>“I love you, Jorah Mormont,” she whispers.</p><p>And for the first time, she sees the wonder that is Jorah Mormont unfold and what he’s restrained for so long, what he’s been starved of for too long. The tinge of fear that contaminates the elation filling his tearful blue hues, the little grin that turns his lips and teases the whites of his teeth, the breathy laugh that disguises the small sob beneath. </p><p>Words escape him, and he does not need to fill the air with  more. Instead, he tugs her gently despite his strength, holds her like a delicate flower recently bloomed and freshly plucked, slides his wet hand through her silver locks and loosens the braids, then presses a sensual kiss to her lips. Tender yet strong as he clings to love he has never known, and surrenders to its potent balm his heart had been yearning for. </p><p>Tonight and all the nights that follow, she will never burn him ever again.</p>
<h3> ix. </h3><p>Months have passed since she’s conquered King’s Landing. </p><p>The night is cooler than most, a mercy from the summer season. </p><p>They lay together, bodies tangled and sweat-ridden, above the blankets having just recently finished another night of love making. Daenerys absentmindedly plays with the curls at his neck, her eyes adoring the man holding her heart while his thumb brushes against her waist. Just little habits they’ve naturally inherited being together. </p><p>Her mind wanders and recent revelations cause her to draw upon a particular memory.</p><p>
  <i>They are the only children I will ever have.</i>
</p><p>A cruel memory it may be, she finds herself smiling at how silly her words sounded.</p><p>She’s elated, but nervous as well. She’s no reason to be knowing his answer, but she feels it nonetheless. </p><p>Daenerys has not bled in many moons. </p><p>Tomorrow, when he wakes in the morn, she will make sure to gift him with words of a bright future.</p>
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